in face.”

“Oh, so you know Smithson?”

“No, I don’t know him. I have never met him. I said I almost met him.”

“Have you never seen him, then?”

“Never in my life.”

“And yet you say he is ‘not like me in face.’ How do you know he is not like me in face if you have never seen him?”

The sudden directness of his tone disconcerted me. For an instant I felt like a witness being cross-examined by a bullying Counsel.

“I’ve seen a portrait of him.”

“Indeed?”

My companion raised his eyebrows.

“And where did you see a portrait of him?” he inquired pointedly.

This was embarrassing. Why was he suddenly so interested, so inquisitive? I had no wish to make statements which I felt might lead to my being dragged into saying all sorts of things I had no wish to say, especially to a stranger who, though he had led me to believe that he was acquainted with the Thorolds, apparently had no inkling of what had just happened at Houghton Park.

No inkling! I almost smiled as the thought occurred to me, and was quickly followed by the thought of the sensation the affair would create when the newspapers came to hear of what had happened, and began to “spread themselves” upon the subject, as they certainly would do very soon.

My companion’s voice dispelled my wandering reflections.

“Where did you see the portrait of this other Smithson?” he asked, looking at me oddly.

“In a friend’s house.”

“Was it at Houghton Park?”

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